Sunshowers
by Little Eirtae
Summary: Juliet saves Carlton from yet another Christmas spent alone. Juliet x Lassiter


**Author's note and disclaimer: **I originally wrote this story for Yuletide under the name Lady Anne Boleyn, based on a prompt by the lovely PiecesofAlice. Due to my being a lazy ass, the version of this story in the Yuletide archive contains a million tiny errors and a few bits I've decided didn't quite work. I've hopefully fixed all those errors in this version. The music Juliet listens to in the story is M.I.A. I imagine Juliet to be a rather eclectic gal, and M.I.A. has a certain joyfulness and vitality that I think Juliet would be quite attracted to. The story also takes its title from an M.I.A. song.

I'm not making any money off this, and I definitely don't own _Psych_. If I did, Juliet and Carlton would be having lots of hot supply closet sex and Shawn and Gus would finally embrace their gayness.

xxx

Carlton doesn't make a habit of eavesdropping on his partner's conversations with Shawn Spencer, but it isn't his fault if he just happens to be within earshot 90% of the time. Anyway, their conversations are usually pointless, consisting mostly of Spencer making up outrageous things to impress O'Hara, who humors him but resists his advances admirably. On occasion, however, Carlton manages to pick up important bits of information from these incidentally overheard conversations.

It is the day before Christmas Eve, and Carlton is sitting at his desk, swamped with files and studiously ignoring Spencer and O'Hara's idle chatter. But when the conversation turns to the holidays, Carlton can't help observing a note of mournfulness in his partner's voice. He files the tidbit away for later use; Spencer doesn't seem to notice, and Carlton chuckles and mentally gives himself a point over Spencer. The "inner eye," it seems, is no match for the bond between partners.

When Spencer finally leaves, Carlton seizes the first opportunity to ask her, as nonchalantly as possible, about her holiday plans, and she asks suspiciously why he wants to know.

He shrugs disinterestedly. "Just being polite, O'Hara."

It takes about two seconds for her to crack. "Okay, but do you promise not to tell Shawn?"

Carlton rolls his eyes. "No. I'm going to send him all your secrets in a sparkly color-coded text message complete with little hearts."

"Point taken, but you do realize that it's impossible to color-code a text message, right?"

"Do I look like I care?"

"Do you even know how to send a text message? You really should learn how to do that, Carlton."

"Keep pushing it and I'll call Spencer the old-fashioned way and tell him whatever it is that you don't want me to tell him – that is, if you ever tell me to begin with!"

"What? Oh, right! Sorry. With the economy like it is, my family can't afford to travel to one place for our traditional O'Hara family celebration, so I'm spending Christmas alone this year."

Carlton declares grandly, "That's _perfect_!" gesturing wildly at the files on his desk. "I've decided I'm going to solve the DiNozzo case over the holidays, and you can help me! We'll spend the next two days going through all these case files with a fine-toothed comb. With both of us working on it we're bound to find something!"

Juliet stares at him. "Carlton, this doesn't have anything to do with the fact that Shawn has solved our last seven cases in a row, does it?"

"No!" he snaps, and Juliet raises an eyebrow. "Okay, fine," he relents, flopping back in his chair. "But think of it, O'Hara! The DiNozzo case has got to be worth at least five normal cases! If I can solve this sucker, I'll – I mean, _we'll _be back on top!"

"Carlton, I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that I was free for the holidays," Juliet says, shaking her head slowly. "I've made plans to deliver toys to the children's home tomorrow."

He leans forward and peers at her through the forest of files. "What about Christmas Day?"

"Do you really want to work on Christmas Day, Carlton?"

"It's not like I have anything better to do."

At that, she falls silent for a long, thoughtful moment. He's about to shrug it off – he certainly doesn't need her pity – when she brightens.

"I've got a great idea! You help me deliver presents to the children's home tomorrow, and I'll help you with the case the next day! That way neither of us will be alone! What do you think?"

"Well, actually I-"

"Perfect! Oh, it's gonna be awesome! I'll pick you up at 11 tomorrow! You'll just love the children, Carlton! They're so adorable and so, _so_ sweet, and they'll be so thrilled to get their presents!"

Carlton spends the next ten minutes trying to get a word in edgewise before giving up.

xxx

On Christmas Eve morning, Carlton agonizes over what to wear before finally deciding on a light blue shirt and black dress pants. At 10:53 he does a fourth quick runthrough of his house, making sure everything is spotless, just in case she decides to come in, and at 10:58, he checks his reflection in the mirror one last time. Part of him hopes she forgets about him, but he is unsurprised when the doorbell rings at 11:00 sharp.

She's wearing something cute and red and Christmas-y, her hair flowing in soft curls around her shoulders and a coffee just the way he likes it in one hand. He murmurs his thanks for the coffee and climbs into her car, and he can't figure out why this kind of feels like a date.

Right away he notices the new sensation of being on the passenger's side. He can't even remember the last time somebody else drove him somewhere. O'Hara seems to be a good driver, though. He briefly entertains the notion of letting her drive the squad car sometime, but he prefers the feeling of being in control, and she's never asked, so.

When they get to the children's home, Carlton has to help Juliet unload the massive garbage bags full of toys. They bring the toys into a huge, open room with tables and chairs and a big, fake Christmas tree at one end. The children come streaming in, and it's kind of shocking because he hadn't realized there were so many of them. It's hard to imagine this many children being abandoned. It makes him want to punch something.

Juliet introduces him to the kids as "Mr. Carlton," and it's fun watching the younger ones try to pronounce "Carlton." Some greet him boisterously, and others hang back, unwilling to trust him so quickly. He and Juliet hand out one toy to each child, and Carlton doesn't think he's ever seen so much happiness from such a simple thing.

Juliet hovers over him at first, pinching him if he says anything she deems inappropriate. "You can't be competitive, or negative, or literal with them, Carlton. They're just kids. You have to go along with whatever they want, no matter how silly it is. Unless it's something dangerous, of course. For God's sake, Carlton, don't let one of them get killed."

Juliet's right, though; the children charm him completely before he even realizes what's happening. One minute he's handing out presents with an uncomfortable smile, and the next he's judging a Barbie fashion show that some of the little girls have set up. He glances around the room for Juliet, spots her playing cops and robbers with a couple of boys, and has to laugh at the irony.

Occasional crises break out; a couple of kids misplace their new toys, and Mr. Carlton and Miss Julie have to help search for them. Once or twice there are skirmishes over whose toy is more desirable. One kid trades toys with someone else and gets angry later when the other boy refuses to switch back.

At some point a tiny Hispanic girl attaches herself to Carlton's side and doesn't leave. She's so quiet that it's a long time before he even notices she's still there. He tells her to go play, and she smiles shyly and shakes her head. It takes a lot of coaxing before she tells him her name – Rosa. She speaks just above a whisper, but the heavily-accented syllables roll quickly and confidently off her tongue. She says she wants to stay with him, and looks up at him with the biggest brown eyes he's ever seen, so he pulls her onto his lap and just holds her for a long time.

A couple of hours later, the kids are getting ready for a trip to a nearby ice rink, and Juliet announces with regret that she and Mr. Carlton have to leave.

A resounding chorus of "Noooooo!" ripples through the room, Rosa wraps her arms around Carlton's leg and swears to never let go, and Carlton clears his throat and sidles up to Juliet.

"You know, we could go with them. If you want to, I mean. Since it's Christmas and all."

She cocks an eyebrow at him. "You would go skating with them? Really?"

He shrugs, smiles down at Rosa. "Sure. How bad can it be?"

It's worse than he could imagine, actually, but it's better, too. He intends to watch from the sidelines, but it takes Rosa about two minutes to convince him to lace up. He's an utterly hopeless skater, he finds, and as embarrassing as it is to fall flat on his ass, the kids' laughter makes it somehow kind of okay. Juliet doesn't laugh at him, but she smirks a lot, and he doesn't bother to remind her that it's his first time; he just glares in a way that he suspects is not very effective at all.

Some kid has the bright idea that he and Juliet should race from one end of the rink to the other, and it's such an obviously bad idea that the children can't resist. They begin dividing into Team Carlton and Team Julie, and Carlton insists that his group is louder than Juliet's, even though it's smaller.

Carlton and Juliet are hopelessly outnumbered, so the race happens and Carlton loses, and he pretends to be crushed. He sits down on the ice and covers his face with his hands, and all his cheerleaders and half of Juliet's rush to comfort him with a group hug that quickly becomes a group tackle. Juliet laughs long and hard at the sight, and when she finally rescues him from that mass of little bodies, her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are sparkling and he temporarily forgets how to breathe.

There's Christmas music playing on speakers in the ceiling, and the next time a slow song comes on, Rosa tugs on Carlton's pants leg and whispers that he should ask Miss Julie to dance. He's flustered for a moment, tells her that you can't dance on the ice. You can slow-skate, she says, and he says, I don't think so, and within minutes she's rallied an army of kids chanting, "Dance! Dance! Dance!"

Juliet skates over to see what the fuss is about. "They want us to dance," he says. "You and me."

She cracks a smile and says, "Okay," grabs his hand and slips one arm around his neck. The kids cheer. He places a hand on her waist and they slow-skate as well as they can, but it's difficult. Carlton keeps slipping and he tries to maintain an appropriate distance between them, but it's impossible to keep their bodies from periodically crashing into one another. The children think this is hilarious, but to Carlton it's awkward and heady and he can't bring himself to look her in the eye.

Finally he slips, she tries to catch him, and they both go tumbling to the ice. The children dissolve into peals of laughter, but Carlton barely hears it because Juliet's on top of him and this is exactly like one of those horrible clichéd moments in a bad romcom, except this is real and there's a roaring sound in his ears.

She seems to find it funny; she trembles with laughter and he can feel the vibrations against his chest. She pulls herself off him, offers him a hand, and turns back to the kids, pretending to be outraged that no one rushed to see if she and Carlton were injured.

By the time the children pack up and return to the home, it's past dinnertime and Carlton can't believe how long he spent with the kids. He's starving, and Juliet offers him a hot Christmas Eve dinner if he helps cook it. He accepts.

All the kids want hugs goodbye, and he hugs Rosa last and longest. He's afraid she might cry, but she just smiles and kisses him on the cheek and says, "See you later, Mr. Carlton."

Juliet says she's impressed by how well he handled the kids today. She asks if he's ever thought about having kids, and he says, "Maybe."

xxx

She cooks the way she does everything else, thoroughly and efficiently, saving small, easy tasks for him to do. She puts some music on, something electric and tribal, with a driving drum beat and hand-clapping in the background and bold lyrics that he can't understand. She hums to herself and sways her hips absentmindedly in time with the music, and he doesn't realize he's watching her until he nearly cuts himself. He doesn't know what to think about all this, so he stops thinking.

He performs the rest of his culinary duties with distinction, and she declares him a competent cook. He takes the first bite of his meal and declares her an excellent one. She breaks out the red wine and they toast to Justice and Freedom and the Good Guys always winning, whether they be detectives or psychics. (That last one is Juliet's idea, obviously.)

The meal is winding down but they're still enjoying their wine, both a little bit looser and more comfortable now with a little alcohol in their blood, and Carlton is casting about for an excuse to stay when Juliet proposes with a giggle that they play a game of 20 Questions.

"The guessing game?" he asks doubtfully, and she says, "No, the game where we each get to ask the other twenty questions, and we have to answer truthfully. No lying."

"I don't think that game exists," he says, and she says, "Whatever, let's play it anyway," and he asks her why.

She says, "Because we're partners, Carlton," as if that explains everything.

"…And?"

"And sometimes I feel like I hardly know you! We know each other's moods and interrogation techniques and physical response times inside out, but I don't even know your favorite kind of music."

Carlton thinks that's what partners _are_, but he has to admit that it's nice, being here with her on Christmas Eve, and he doesn't want to think about returning to his cold, empty house right now. "All right. Ten questions."

"Fifteen."

"Fifteen questions and three free passes for questions we don't want to answer."

"Make that two free passes, not usable back-to-back, and you've got yourself a deal."

They clink their wine glasses together, and he starts by asking her favorite color. The first few questions are similarly banal, eliciting only one-word answers, until she asks him when he stopped believing in Santa Claus.

"Oh, I never believed in all that Santa Claus baloney. Every year my parents gave me a Christmas allowance instead. My mother would take me to the store on December 26th, when everything was marked down, and let me buy whatever I wanted within my budget."

Juliet covers her mouth with her hand. "Carlton, that's awful!"

"On the contrary. It taught me the value of a dollar. I was learning how to manage my money while all the other 3-year-olds were being taught that an obese man and his flying animals would bring them toys every year regardless of their economic situation. It was only setting them up for failure."

Juliet, laughing, has to admit that this makes a certain kind of sense.

"Speaking of Christmas, O'Hara, why didn't you want Spencer to know about your Christmas plans?"

She hesitates. "Shawn is… well, Shawn is spending Christmas with Gus and his family. If he knew I was alone for the holidays, he would've tried to include me. Not that I don't adore Shawn and Gus, but I preferred a quiet Christmas all to myself to dealing with their antics."

Carlton feels a surge of triumph. _She'd rather spend Christmas with me than with Spencer._

She leans forward, resting her chin on her hands, and asks if he believes Shawn is a psychic.

"Of course not!" and when he doesn't elaborate, she prods, "Well how do you think he does it, then?"

Carlton shakes his head and admits, "I don't know. I wish I knew. More than just about anything, I wish I knew." Then, as an afterthought, he adds, "By the way, that second question counted, so now I get two in a row."

She glares at him, and he grins back.

"What's the deal with you and Spencer, anyway? Did you actually go out with him?"

Juliet rolls her eyes. "We went out a couple of times. And we kissed, like, once. He's fun, but Shawn's a kid." She looks up, meets Carlton's gaze. "He isn't enough for me."

Carlton successfully refrains from asking her what – or who – _is_ enough for her.

Several questions later, Juliet sees an opportunity for revenge. She asks how he knows what her hair smells like, and he blusters his way through some crap answer about close proximity and wafting hair scents. He asks how she makes her hair always smell like peaches, no matter what time of day it is or what harrowing ordeal they've just been through, and she makes up something equally ridiculous.

(At least, he's pretty sure it's made-up. There's no way she really bathes in peach juice, right? With Juliet, he's never quite sure about these things. Anyway, the mental image of Juliet's body covered in sweet, sticky juice certainly has what he assumes is the desired effect.)

She smirks and drives home the advantage. "Boxers or briefs?"

He gapes and hisses, "Pass."

"What happened with you and the chief's sister?"

Realizing too late that he's been set up – he can't use two passes in a row – Carlton rubs his eyes wearily. "She said I was 'clingy,'" he says, complete with airquotes. "She needed to 'run wild and free.'"

Juliet dissolves into helpless laughter and even though it's kind of infectious, Carlton glowers at her.

"Okay. You wanna play that game? What happened with you and Commander Luntz, hmm?"

She stops laughing and blushes, looks down at her hands. "I don't know. I was angry at him after the whole bank hostage situation, and things never really got better after that. I guess working with somebody makes you realize things about them that you never saw before."

Carlton grimaces. "What the hell did you see in him anyway?"

"He was strong and handsome. Powerful. No-nonsense. I mean, he could be a real hardass, but he was committed to his job, and he did it well. He was passionate about it. And age and maturity are turn-ons for me." She's blushing furiously. He never expected this much honesty from her. "Satisfied?"

"Is that your next question?"

Her head snaps up. "No!" She narrows her eyes. "Since we're having a little heart-to-heart here, did you really have an affair with your last partner?"

This is the question he's been waiting for. He's saved a pass for it, but suddenly it doesn't seem so difficult to answer. Besides, forcing her to answer two questions in a row about her most recent ex and then ducking out of the question she most wants answered is probably a very nasty thing to do.

"Yes," he says simply. He watches her expression carefully; she does a good job of keeping the surprise from her face. "We were both lonely, and sometimes the job got to her. We have Spencer to thank for exposing us. She had to transfer after that."

"I'm sorry," Juliet murmurs softly, and he knows she means it.

"It's fine."

They sit in silence for a few moments before she reminds him gently that he still has one question left. He considers taking the easy way out and asking about her favorite song, but after talking about Lucinda, there's a far weightier question in his mind, and if he doesn't ask it now he never will.

"Juliet," he begins, and it's only when her eyes light up that he even realizes that he's said her first name. "O'Hara," he corrects himself, "am I a good partner?"

Once it's out, he wishes he could take it back, because it sounds so childish. "What I mean," he backpedals, "is, would you rather have a different partner?" He can barely bring himself to look at her, but she's smiling, and she's not calling him out for squeezing in two questions, for which he is grateful.

"Carlton, you know you're a damn good partner. I can't imagine working with anybody else. And I don't want to. The truth is, if you transferred away from Santa Barbara, I'd probably leave, too. Go back to Miami, maybe. Or somewhere up north, where it actually snows at Christmas. Point is, I wouldn't want to stay here if you were gone. Nothing would be the same without you here."

Whatever Carlton is expecting, it isn't that. The admission shocks him. Her gaze is steady and open, and it hits him that there's nobody in the world that he's closer to than her. He could never have foreseen it, but his partner has become the most important person in his life. They're sworn to protect each other, even to the point of death – and the thought of Juliet's life in his hands has never seemed more terrifying than it does right now – but the knowledge that she would choose him, that even if given a choice, she would entrust her life to him and no one else…

Carlton has never wanted to hug anyone so much in his life, but there's no need to do or say anything. He quirks a half-smile, and she nods, understanding.

He clears his throat. "It's, uh. It's your last question."

Her gaze turns thoughtful and she's silent for what feels like a long, long time. She bites her lower lip, makes a noise that means she's made up her mind, and asks, "What would you do if I kissed you?"

His mouth goes dry; a shudder ripples through him. If the house fell down or Spencer and Guster waltzed in and started making out on the table, he wouldn't notice.

"Pass," he blurts, not even giving himself a chance to consider the question.

"No, I'm serious," she says, and gets up and moves to sit next to him. "I was thinking – and maybe this is just the wine talking, so let me know if this is completely crazy and we'll never speak of it again. But, I was thinking… you and Cam – Commander Luntz – are a lot alike. I keep trying to think of the difference between you and him, of reasons why I should be attracted to him and not to you, but the only things I can come up with are points in your favor. You're better-looking, and more trusting and loyal and empathetic, and you know me in ways that nobody else does. And okay, you're technically married, but even _that's_ not really a big minus. And _you_ have a thing for strong, disciplined women, and don't think I haven't seen the way you look at me when I cuff a perp."

She pauses, nervously tucks her hair behind her ear and scoots a little closer to him. "I'm just putting the pieces together here, Carlton. Maybe I'm completely off track, but… I just want to know. If I kissed you, would you kiss me back?"

He wracks his brain for an answer and comes up empty. So he opens his mouth and prays that whatever comes out will be calm and rational and dispel the tension in the room and the heat curling low in his belly.

"I don't know."

Well. Not exactly what he was looking for, there.

She smiles a little bit and leans into him. Her gaze drops to his mouth, and he really should be pulling away but he's lost all sense of direction, and there's a good chance that he'd end up moving toward her instead, so it's probably best if he remains still.

She takes his face in both hands, whispers, "This is just an experiment," and presses her lips to his.

She's soft and warm and tentative and intoxicating. She smells like peaches and tastes like wine. She brushes his lips with hers over and over, and it takes about ten seconds for her to get her answer.

Yes, he kisses her back. His arms go around her waist and pull her closer. She threads one hand through his hair and the other slides down his chest and up his back. She shifts, straddles his lap, and breaks the kiss. He opens his eyes and there's a smile on her face so brilliant that he sees stars.

He wants her. He wants her bottom lip in his mouth and his hands in her hair and her bare skin against his. He wants to find all the spots that make her gasp and all the things that make her moan. He wants to know if she would shut her eyes or look at him when she came. If she would cry out or whisper his name. He's never admitted it to himself before, but he can't think of anyone he'd rather be with than her.

He asks roughly if that answers her question, and she giggles and pulls his head down to meet hers, and they both smile into the kiss.

Somehow a glass gets knocked off the table, splattering wine all over his shirt. He barely notices, but she giggles and uses it as an excuse to get his shirt off. It all goes quickly after that, and by the time they reach her bedroom they're already naked and she's making the most wonderful noises and he thinks he's probably in love with her.

xxx

Carlton awakens to the smell of pancakes and the sound of faraway music, and for a few seconds he thinks Victoria must have come back. But then he opens his eyes and he is _not_ in his bedroom, and that is _not_ Victoria's classical music playing down the hall, and he is most definitely _not_ wearing pajamas under those light pink sheets that smell like – oh God – _peaches_.

He spends a good five minutes trying to convince himself that this is a dream, but no matter how many times he blinks, Juliet's bedroom is still there, and a thousand memories of last night are still whirling through his mind – her nails on his back, her breath on his neck, how she looks when she comes and _oh hell this is not a dream_.

There's something warm and kind of glowy inside him, but there's also disbelief – because, _God_, she's gorgeous and she must have been drunk off her ass to let him touch her like that – and even if she was lucid, she's still his _partner_. The consequences could be devastating and he doesn't even try to concoct a scenario in which this all turns out okay.

He finds his pants laid neatly at the foot of the bed where she apparently left them out for him. His shirt is nowhere to be found, and he's willing to bet she's confiscated it so she can wash last night's wine stains out. The thought of her doing his laundry is embarrassing and something else he can't put his finger on. Before he steps out into the hallway, he catches sight of himself in the bedroom mirror. He's grinning like an idiot, the tips of his ears bright red. He forces a grimace onto his face before padding down the hall toward whatever fate awaits him at Juliet's hands.

He follows the music to the kitchen and stops dead in the doorway. Her kitchen is full of sunlight and fresh flowers and delicious scents and now he knows where his shirt is, because she's wearing it and nothing else. Her hair down and disheveled, her face makeup-free, her toes bare and bright red, she's dancing around her kitchen in his shirt and he is _floundering_.

She spins around once, twice, and stops when she sees him, hair flying into her face. She cracks a smile, and something is wrong here because _she is acting like nothing is wrong_. As if the sight of her parading around in his oh-so-thin shirt isn't enough to throw off his equilibrium forever, she's smiling at him like it's her birthday and Christmas and Valentine's Day all rolled into one. And last time he checked, today is only one of those, so.

She says his name in a way that can only be described as gleeful, and he fully expects her to call him "sleepyhead" and start babbling about what a beautiful morning it is. Instead she tosses her head and stares at him expectantly. He knows her well enough to know that she's waiting for him to say something, gauging his mood before deciding on her course of action.

The same music from last night is pulsing in the background. It sounds like something out of the rainforest – the complete opposite of the sugary power pop he expected from her. He likes it, actually, but it's not what he prepared for, and he needs to regain his comfort zone fast, so he grumbles, "What is that infernal racket?"

He'll play the blustering grump, and she'll giggle and say something cute. They'll fall into their usual roles, and everything will start to seem normal instead of giddy and dire and foreign.

She smiles but doesn't giggle, instead sailing forward and pressing herself against the entire length of his body. She rises on her toes, brushes her lips against his ear, and proceeds to roll her body on his to the steady beat of the music. Her hands slide up his chest to cup the back of his neck. Her cheek brushes against his. Breasts, stomach, hips, she feels hot and slippery and untamable against his skin, and he is thrown completely off balance.

He brings his hands to rest on her hips but can't stop them swinging and undulating in a way that feels delicious and wrong, because he had _no idea_ she could do that, and he can't think of what would make her want to, and _whoever the hell taught her this is going to fucking prison_. For corruption of innocent youth and teaching of dark, seductive arts to an officer of the law.

She's trailing kisses along his jaw and he's almost worked up the willpower to push her away when she kisses him full on the mouth. This time, there's no hesitation; she pulls his lower lip into her mouth and nibbles and licks in time with the movement of her body. He groans and she takes the opportunity to slip her tongue into his mouth.

Then, slowly, everything starts to fall back into place. She stills and just kisses him, long and slow and deep. Her hands settle on his hips, holding him against her and anchoring him to the ground so he isn't carried away by the strangeness of all this. She kisses him until he calms down, until he's kissing her back and everything feels okay again, and then she pulls away.

"_God_," he gasps. "What the hell was that?"

"If I know you, you've been sitting in my bedroom for a good long time exploring all the ways this could end badly. You were in full freak-out mode, Carlton. I had to snap you out of it.

She puts her hands on his face. "Look at me. This is new. It's weird for both of us. But it doesn't have to change us. We don't have to panic or start planning for every contingency just yet. If you ever just take one thing as it comes, let it be this thing."

He nods slowly, amazed as always by her ability to see right through him. He starts thinking that maybe, just maybe, she's right about this. It certainly wouldn't be the first time.

"Now," she says firmly, "kiss me or I won't help you with the DiNozzo case today."

He laughs, a genuine, happy laugh. "Actually, I have a better idea. Do you know how to fish?"

They take a shower together and stop by his house to retrieve his fishing gear and allow him to change clothes. She proclaims his plaid shirt and ratty old jeans to be sexy, and he declares she's never been prettier than when she's wearing his fishing hat.

He is silently impressed when she baits her own hook, even though she apologizes to the "poor little worm" throughout the whole ordeal. He pretends not to notice when she drops free worms into the water for the fish, and if she notices his completely inability to remain patient while waiting for a bite, she doesn't comment on it.

His fears that she would rather sit and talk than fish are unfounded. She seems to inherently understand that fishing is about quiet companionship more than anything else. She sits quietly and stares out at the water, and if he'd known that this was all it took to shut her up for awhile, he would've taken her fishing years ago.

But truth be told, he spends more time watching her than watching his fishing pole. She looks contemplative and content, and he finds himself wanting to offer a penny for her thoughts, but he's afraid it would break the spell.

At some point there's a sudden sound from onshore, and she clutches his arm. They both feel it: they're two cops in a tiny boat surrounded by water, with only fishhooks to protect themselves. They're exposed and vulnerable. It's instinct.

The good news is that it's just some poor old man with nothing better to do than go fishing on Christmas Day. The bad news is that Carlton is irritated now, and he can still hear Juliet's startled gasp. He paddles to the shore and flashes his badge, says, "I'm sorry sir, this is a crime scene. You're going to have to move way down the shore and give us some space."

The man mutters under his breath about abuse of power, but complies. The look on Juliet's face is a little disapproving and a lot amused, and when the man is gone she leans over and kisses Carlton so hard the boat nearly capsizes.

It's probably a good thing that they're actually not catching any fish, since he isn't entirely sure she wouldn't throw them back. She gets bored, gives up, rests her head against his chest and closes her eyes.

He watches her, and maybe it's a little creepy but he knows she's not asleep. She cracks an eye open, looks up at him, asks him if he's happy.

He puts down his fishing pole, wraps both arms around her middle and breathes in the scent of her hair. "Mm-hmm," because it's all he trusts himself to say. She snuggles against his chest, murmurs, "Merry Christmas, Carlton," and he makes a mental note to practice calling her Juliet.


End file.
